


One Word At A Time

by Elialys



Category: Fringe
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Drabble Collection, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Feels, Ficlet Collection, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 23:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 14,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5268515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elialys/pseuds/Elialys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles and short stories, all about Peter and Olivia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lurking

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing about Peter and Olivia for over 5 years now, so I've accumulated A LOT of drabbles and a few "ficlets". All of those are already posted on my tumblr/ff.net, but I thought I would archive my favorite ones here as well. Obviously some of them were written waaaaaaaay back then, and a lot of those were 'prompted' (aka I was given a word, and wrote really fast).

She was so distracted, barely paying attention to what she was doing. Peter, on the other hand, didn't miss a move, as she absent-mindedly tried to dry up her half-naked, dripping body with a towel, her other hand up to her ear, holding her phone.

Barely out of the Tank and freed of the metal rod in her spine, she was already a step ahead, so focused on what she was fervently telling Charlie that she didn't realize Peter was shamelessly lurking from farther away in the lab.

The sight of her was simply too enticing; he couldn't be blamed, her body lean and curving with her every move as she attempted to mope her skin. But there were droplets of water trickling down her exposed flesh, everywhere.

There definitely was too much exposed flesh.

"Son," Walter's voice snapped him out of his contemplation. "I believe you need to urinate."


	2. Blindfold

She falls to the ground, where she has seen his body crumple. She reaches for him, ignoring the different aches pulsing through her limbs, because nothing can win over the screaming fear in her heart.

She takes the blindfold off his eyes, hoping that he will blink at her. He doesn't.

His body is limp and broken, a thin trickle of blood having made its way out of his cracked lips. She cups his face in her hands, trembling fingers gently caressing his bruised cheeks. And when she calls his name, it is a more a supplication than a whisper.

"Peter?"


	3. Beautiful Things

She was without a doubt the most beautiful thing Peter had ever seen. And that was saying a lot, taking into account how his extensive travels a decade or so ago had led him to witness some wondrous sights. But he was only a man, after all, and he had never been immune to the charms of a beautiful girl.

This one was setting a new record, though, and it wasn't helping at all that she was staring right back at him. He felt like he might start crying again soon, his manly pride long defeated anyway.

"Looks like someone's in love."

Peter couldn't say he was exactly surprised to hear the soft whisper coming from the bed, but he was startled out of his contemplation at the sound of her voice; moving his eyes away from his daughter's, he turned slightly to look at Olivia, who minutes ago had still been sound asleep, rightfully exhausted after her endless hours of labor and delivery. She hadn't moved, still mostly curled up under the covers, one arm tucked under the pillow, but she was definitely awake.

"You should sleep," he reprimanded her softly, to which she only smiled, a very sleepy smile.

"So should she," she pointed out. "Maybe if her father let her stay in that bassinet for more than five minutes, she would actually manage it."

"She was already awake," he defended himself with a slight scowl that only caused her to smile a little more, and unable to stop himself, he brought his gaze back to the little beauty nestled in the crook of his arm.

Her eyes were still wide opened, staring right back at him. In the very dim light of the hospital room, it was too dark for him to see their color, but he had already memorized their shade of blue earlier, just like he had her every trait, as well as the weight of her in his arms.

Not so long ago, with Olivia asleep, he had allowed himself a cafeteria break, his appetite finally resurfacing now that his stomach had stopped being a nervous knot, all of his understandable anxiety having morphed into dazed elation. When he had come back less than twenty minutes later, incapable of staying away from the room any longer, he had immediately gone to stand over the bassinet right next to Olivia's bed, ready to spend the next hour or two simply gazing down at their daughter, only to find her gazing up at him. He was only human, and very much in love indeed, of course he had picked her up, just so he could look at her and love her more closely.

"She's so alert," he said then, almost in awe. "I swear she's already started judging me."

This earned him a small snort from the bed. "She's surely just wondering who's that blurry person holding her, waiting for the other blurry person with the boobs full of milk to feed her again."

He offered her another scowl, but really, all he could think about was how beautiful  _she_  still managed to be, even drained as she looked, her hair a total mess, her face marked with exhaustion and her recent exertion. He intended to make some kind of remark on her tendency to be so practical about absolutely everything, but ended up simply staring at her, the mother of his child, wondering if one could OD on too much love within a short period of time.

Olivia smirked and shook her head slightly. "Get that look off your face."

"What look?" he asked dreamily, still staring at her without blinking.

"The look that led the two of us into making this one," she indicated with a tilt of her chin, even though she still hadn't moved, half her face pressed into her pillow.

He could only grin. "Ah, but I intend for you to pop out two or three more of these, a real little tribe of Bishop, so you should get used to that look."

She actually groaned at this, grimacing slightly, even though a smile remained on her face. "Ugh. I'm afraid the events of the day have closed  _that_  door for some time."

He frowned. "Really? From what I saw, it looked like it actually  _opened_ that door rather widely for a while there, just enough to get that one's head out."

She actually buried her face into her pillow then as she groaned more loudly and discontentedly. "You're disgusting," she moaned, the sound of her voice muffled.

"I'm handsome," he countered her, now grinning foolishly as he came to stand right next to her bed, and when she turned her head to look up at him again, he wasn't surprised to see her smiling too, even though she still wore a disapproving look towards what he had said.

"You're disgustingly handsome," she muttered. "And your babies' heads are way too big, to be honest with you."

He turned his eyes back to Henrietta, who had actually started getting drowsy in his arm, as if the sound of their voices was lulling her to sleep. "Don't listen to mommy," he whispered. "Your head is perfectly sized."

Movements at the corner of his eyes made him look back at Olivia, unsurprised to see that she had sat up on her bed, and was now holding out her hands expectedly. He obliged without hesitation, handing her the sleepy infant without any of the awkwardness he had expected himself to feel upon carrying such a tiny being.

She felt so natural in hands, as if she had always belonged there, with them. It was as if she was always meant to be here, part of their life; and judging by the ease with which Olivia was now holding her, he knew she felt it too.

She had brought her legs up to rest the baby on her thighs over the covers, and already, she seemed to have forgotten he was in the room with them. He watched, transfixed, as Olivia brought her face close to Etta's, until the tip of her nose touched the minuscule rosy flesh that made up their daughter's nose, and she moved slowly, gently brushing their skin together. She then raised her head a little, pressing her lips upon her hair, lingering there; she closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. He obviously wasn't the only one who had fallen deeply in love.

And as he watched them, he corrected himself.

_This_ was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.


	4. Meadow

Olivia doesn't really know how she has ended up here, in the meadow part of the park. It seems like one minute, she was hiding between the trees, and the next, she was standing there, fully exposed, her face only shadowed by the hood of her jacket.

Even though she's in no immediate danger anymore, her heart still beats too fast beneath her ribs, and she has to force herself to keep her breathing deep and slow, glancing around nervously. People don't even notice her. She has always been good at that, blending into the picture, ignored by all.

A sudden ache invades her heart, as she remembers that it is not true, not anymore. Someone made her feel special, once. Or twice.

' _I've never met anyone who can do the things that you do.'_

As she stares at the shapes of the twin towers, far, far off in the distance, she has rarely felt so alone, so homesick.

' _Peter.'_


	5. Pet

Peter enters the house, arms full of groceries, just in time to witness the end of what appears to be a booming argument between mother and daughter.

Etta is already halfway up the stairs; she isn't climbing the steps as much as she's  _stomping_. "You never let me get anything I want!" she shouts down at Olivia, who looks surprisingly composed, compared to their seven year old's fury.

She's leaning against the staircase, arms crossed, blinking calmly at her fuming daughter. "Why don't you go in your room and brood about how deprived you are while we get dinner ready?"

Etta's only answer is a glare Peter knows well –a perfect imitation of Olivia's, before she stomps the rest of the steps. Three seconds later, the house shakes, Etta having 'closed' her door.

Peter raises an eyebrow at Olivia, who simply shrugs. "She wants us to get a pet."

"Well, we've been talking about maybe getting a dog, haven't we?" he points out.

Olivia shakes her head. "No, Peter. She wants us to get a  _cow_."


	6. Eyelash

It hangs on them, about to fall, quivering slightly. The tear on her eyelashes, that is.

And it's funny, really, how he can see it so clearly and sharply, when everything else around him has turned fuzzy and dark. He himself feels incredibly numb and weightless. He doesn't even feel her hands on his face, fingers digging into his flesh, her face so close to his. And when she speaks, her words are muffled, as if his head was under water.

"Peter, please, stay with me. Don't do this to me."

He doesn't even see the desperation in her eyes. All he sees is that tear. And when it finally falls, it lands on his lips, and slides into his mouth. And for a moment there, he can taste it, blending with the acre tinge of his blood.

The salt, the pain, the plea.

_'It's okay…'_  he wants to tell her.

But he cannot speak anymore.


	7. Nightmares

Lately, Olivia had come to dread the night in a whole new way.

It was not that she wasn't accustomed to nightmares; considering her life and the atrocities that seemed to be following her around no matter the universe or the timeline she lived in, she'd had her fair share of night woes through the years, which often resulted in bouts of insomnia that very few things could fight off. Peter had told her years ago about the night terrors he used to experience as a child. She was still completely unprepared when they decided to make their comeback, in the aftermath of her 'temporary death'.

No matter how healthy and safe she was, Peter now woke up almost every night, trashing around and choking out her name in this heartbroken croak that never failed to squeeze her insides, her heart aching at his distress. She let him cling to her, in the dark of night, his body shivering violently against hers as he buried his face in the crook of her neck and clenched his arms around her in a death grip; all she could do was draw soothing circles upon the sweaty expanse of his back, her fingers often ending up curled up into the damp mass of his hair, her lips pressed to his shoulder, tasting the salt of his skin.

It took her a while to find ways to really calm him down, once she realized that repeatedly telling him that she was fine, that it was just a bad dream, wasn't doing much. She had started taking his hand in hers, bringing it between them, and making him press his palm upon that small spot on her lower stomach that was getting firmer and more prominent with every passing day; she always lay her hand atop his, intertwining their fingers as she moved, uncurling herself from against his chest to bring her face to his. She then nuzzled his nose with hers, comfortingly, murmuring the same words over and over again. She had changed her motto from ' _I'm fine'_ to ' _We're okay, Peter. We're okay._ '

When his breathing had slowed down and his muscles had started to relax, she would let him hug her again, his hand still firmly placed upon her growing bump, his breath a sweet and scorching caress against her neck, and she went back to stroking his hair slowly, whispering in his ear ' _please don't dream tonight…please don't dream tonight…please don't dream tonight…_ '

He always fell back asleep long before she did.


	8. One Friday Night

The room was soon filled with screams of terror and pain, which caused Olivia to smirk in amusement. When skin started to tear open and blood flowed out in very unnatural red gushes, she almost snorted in derision. But she was distracted by the sudden change in the pattern Peter's hand had been tracing on her back.

Well,  _tracing_  might not be the right word for it; to be honest, whenever he did that, 'massaged' her back while they watched TV, it felt more like he was trying to dig a hole in there. She kept telling herself that she should let him know about her dislike of this habit, but most of the time, she was way too cozy, cuddled up with him on her couch, her stomach full of delicious food, her mood brightened even more by the two glasses of wine she had usually drunk by that time. She didn't have the heart to let him know how she sometimes got the urge to cut his hand off, especially when she very much loved his hands at other times. Very much, yes.

But right now, his circling motion simply stopped abruptly, his fingers digging painfully into her back as he grunted in disgust; Olivia, on the other hand, hissed in pain, swiflty rolling over, head still on his laps, ready to scowl at him for being so rough on her back. But she stopped, taking in his sudden pallor and grimace, as his eyes remained glued on the screen. She briefly glanced back at it herself. The poor woman now laid dead on the floor, her stomach nothing but a wide, bloody hole, and there was a three year old child just as bloody sitting there in front of her.

Really, she should have known better than have sex with an astronaut who had been infected by some alien DNA or something.

Olivia turned her head again to look up at Peter, whose grimace was almost hilarious.

"Seriously?" she chuckled. "Of all the movies we've seen,  _this_  is what grosses you out?"

He lowered his gaze to meet her eyes. "I find this eerie."

She couldn't help another chuckle. "Oh c'mon, we  _had_  a case like this one, not even two weeks after we met, remember? A woman 'gave birth' to a baby who turned into an old man and died within minutes. Except that it wasn't an alien thing, but some kind of genetic modification."

"Oh, I remember," he said, pressing the mute button, as his other hand got lost in her hair again. "Maybe that's why it's rubbing me the wrong way, because I know this kind of things happen."

She shook her head, smirking again. "What's wrong, Peter, are you afraid you could possibly father babies who grow inexplicably fast?"

He gave her a look, as if he wasn't amused by her smart remarks, but the twinkle in his eyes told her that he actually was. "Hey, you should be the one worrying about that possibility, not me."

This caused her to snort again. "True, that would be my uterus exploding." She brought a hand to his face then, scratching his stubble with her fingernails. "But it's not like it's going to happen any time soon, right?"

He tilted his head then, squinting his eyes, giving her an intent look. And then he said, very seriously: "Maybe we should make a baby."

An angel passed, as a very  _pregnant_  pause followed his statement.

There was a small smile on his lips, as if he was just joking around, but Olivia knew him enough by now to read him, and she could tell that part of him meant it; that, plus the fact that the hand that wasn't entangled in her hair had found its way under her black top, his palm pressed possessively over the plane of her lean stomach.

She wrinkled her nose. "What about  _no_ ," she told him seriously, but keeping a soft smile on. "Let's save the Universes first, okay?"

"But a baby would be so cute," he continued, his thumb tracing circles around her navel. "Especially if he had your eyes and my sense of humor."

She couldn't help it; she chuckled again, finding him more than a little endearing at that instant. He looked like a child asking if he could get a puppy for Christmas. Except that this would be no puppy, and they both knew it.

"A baby would be very cute for sure, and also oh, so life consuming," she replied, patting his cheek a bit derisively, before dropping her hand to his chest, just over his heart. "Plus, we already have a baby. He's probably very high right now, dancing naked in your living room."

Peter's soft smile had turned into a mischievous smirk, as his fingers moved slowly, starting to slip under the hem of her sweat pants, and she bit down her lip. "Alright, let's practice making babies, then," he said in a suggestive tone.

She could keep on playing that game for a long time, too. "I'm pretty sure we got the hang of it by now."

His fingers had definitely made their way downward now, even though she was still partially protected by the presence of her panties…not that it did much to keep her heart from beating suddenly much faster, as a very familiar and very welcomed warmth spread through her, starting low within herself. This was definitely one of these times when she loved his hands alright.

He had leaned down to bring his mouth closer to hers, breathing in the longing sigh that soon escaped her lips as he started to trespass her panties too. "Practice makes perfect…" he whispered with a cheeky grin. A grin that she swiftly made disappear by effectively attacking his mouth, both her arms coming up to wrap themselves around his neck, as she attempted to get closer to him, much closer.

Soon, she wasn't mostly lying down on the couch anymore, but definitely sitting on his lap, the angle of their embrace quite awkward, but none of them really cared. She did care however when all of a sudden, his hands weren't deliciously working on her anymore, both splaying over her back, and she swallowed back a frustrated groan. Pulling away slightly, she offered him a questioning look. His expression was way too serious again.

"In all seriousness," he said then, softly. "What about babies?"

Her chest still heaving slightly, Olivia sighed, shoulders slumping. She brought both her hands to his face, though, unable not to feel a small, painful squeeze within her chest. "Peter…" she whispered, shaking her head a little. "I won't even let myself think farther than each Friday nights we get to spend together, doing this, being all coupley and pretending we have some kind of a normal life." His eyes were too intense, and she could feel his heart beating too fast, too, their chests close as they were. She offered him a sad smile, her thumbs caressing the hairless skin of his cheeks. "You know how I feel about children, and you know how I feel about you. I just…I honestly can't project myself that far right now."

She knew he understood. Their lives were anything but normal, to be honest, but they both needed this, needed these evenings when they could pretend for a few hours. And maybe that was why he was being insistent on this matter, because wasn't having babies something normal couples did?

Sadly, they were not normal enough for that, not right now in any case, and they both knew it.

Peter smiled then, deciding to put an end to the heavy tension. "And how do you feel about me, exactly?" he asked, cheekily, his hands traveling again over her back, and she rewarded him with an approving smile, shifting again until she was straddling him.

"I feel strongly enough to put myself at risk of having an accelerated pregnancy pretty much every night," she said, teasingly, pressing an unhurried kiss upon his lips.

One of his hands had come up to her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone in a gentle caress that always made her heart ache the most delicious ache. "You love it, though," he said softly, with a smile that was even softer, and Olivia swore she could just drown in his eyes, surely would someday.

She leaned forward slightly, gently nuzzling his nose with hers. "Yeah…I love it," she whispered back, and they both knew what she was truly saying.

"Good," he nodded, planting a kiss on her nose. "Because I love it too," and on these words, he wrapped his arms firmly around her waist and pushed himself up, bringing her along with him. "Time for practice!"

The sound of her laughter soon filled the room, until they morphed into something else, the movie long forgotten.

It often was.


	9. Dandelions

The grass burns.

Where there had been life under their feet only moments ago, there is no more. Green turns into yellow, each strand soon shriveling as if in agony, a mere projection of the pain that is now oozing out of the woman standing above them, the one draining their every fiber until there is nothing left. The energy she's releasing is so intense that it isn't enough, and so they burn.

This invisible and deadly wave spreads around Olivia like a cancer, the growing dark circle at their feet soon distorting as she starts moving again, like everybody else in the vicinity. Chaos has erupted, but she doesn't see it, doesn't care. There is a frenzy in her steps, just like there is in her voice as she calls their daughter's name, over and over again. Her whirl of emotions fills the air with smoke, as all these running feet shake the burning ground.

Gone is the little girl who blew flowers away, filling the sky with her innocent dreams; all that is left is her mother's desperate wrath, her father's helpless agony, and the ashes that swirl up their ankles.

There are no more dandelion seeds dancing with the wind.


	10. Fireplace

Staring at the flames as they moved lazily and gracefully in the hearth, only feet away from where they lay, Olivia could easily have fallen asleep. She was so close to the fire that she felt its warmth, as it slowly dried up the sweat that still layered her skin, and its gentle crackling sounds only added to the drowsy atmosphere.

Sleep would not be an option for a while, though. There was another source of warmth behind her, in the form of the man who was pinned against her back, his nose pressed in the curve between her shoulder and neck. And while his hand had been immobile on her stomach moments ago, if not for the indolent way his thumb brushed the underside of her breast, it was now on the move again.

As his fingers drew patterns on her shivering skin, she couldn't help a sound that was between a chuckle and pained groan from escaping her.

"Seriously?" She asked, turning her head to try and look at him, but their position wouldn't allow it. "My ass is suffering from severe rug rash right now."

Peter's hand moved again, cupping the sensitive flesh in his palm and giving it an affectionate squeeze. "My bad. I did offer to be the one with my ass on the rug, though."

She wiggled in his arms and hands, turning around so she could face him, quickly entwining their legs to keep their warmth mingled –and offering her sore behind to the soothing heat of the flames.

With his face inches away from hers, she now saw the smile on his lips and the amused glint in his eyes. But beyond it, there always was this insatiable hunger, a look that never failed to liquefy every inch of her, even when he didn't say a word or didn't make a move.

"What about that big bed that occupies most of the room?" she whispered with a smile of her own. "Mattresses are not as overrated as you think."

His fingers really were unstoppable, now lightly tracing her spine, while his gaze kept on matching the heat of the fire behind her. "We can use a mattress at home. Vermont is all about rugs and fireplaces. And sore asses."

She chuckled again, bringing a hand up to his stubbly cheek as she shook her head. "I still can't believe you convinced me to do this."

Even though there still was a small smile on her lips, there also was a note in her voice that contained everything she was not saying, everything they had left behind in Boston, if only for twelve hours.

His gaze became even more intense then; in the dim and soothing light of the fire, he was more beautiful than ever.

"Do you wish you'd chosen differently?"

Just like her, there was a hidden meaning in his words, one that she heard as clearly as she felt the regular beat of his heart against her palm, her hand now resting on his chest.

He knew how frustrated it made her, to be so off balance with the entire world, being only "sixty percents" of the person she used to be, according to her psychologist.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly, though, offering him a reassuring smile. "No," she told him. And she meant it.

Because she might be off balance with the entire universe, she was perfectly in phase with him.

And that was really all she needed.


	11. Simon

Peter did not like Simon Foster.

Well, that was not entirely true. He actually really liked the guy, up until very recently.

It would have been hard for him not to like him, when Simon had literally thrown himself into the Amber to take his place. That fact alone had been enough for Peter to  _love_ the man, long before they went back to free him; by then, Etta had told him so many anecdotes about how he'd been watching out for her all these years that all Peter had wanted to do was shake his hand and thank him wholeheartedly. On top of that, he had soon come to realize that Simon simply was a very likeable guy, smart and funny, efficient and resourceful. Basically, he fitted perfectly in their freshly -and dysfunctional- reunited team.

He had liked Simon very much, until it came to his attention that the other man had apparently done much more than just  _watch out_  for his daughter, these past few years.

It became suddenly evident to him that day when he looked up from the row of weapons he had been working on and noticed just how close Etta and Simon were standing, farther away in the room, discussing their upcoming operation over a mess of papers. There barely was an inch separating their bodies, and Peter did not miss the way Simon's hand regularly wandered off the table to distractedly go around his daughter's waist, brushing her hip, or the back of her 'pants'. Not to mention the way they spoke to each other, their faces so close they were breathing the same damn air, and then there was that small, cheeky smile on Etta's lips every time he spoke something almost directly into her ear.

Just like that, Peter didn't like Simon anymore.

Instead of making a scene, he sought out his wife. He did not do it because he knew she would be the voice of reason, but because he was so offended by what he had just witnessed that he was convinced the mother of his child would be just as upset.

"And you're only realizing it  _now_?" is what Olivia said instead when he shared his concerns with her. "I picked up on that vibe six hours after I was out of the Amber."

This was definitely not the support he had been looking for.

"You cannot possibly be okay with this," he almost grunted. "You should have seen him, he was looking at her like he was ready to just-" He couldn't bring himself to finish that thought, suddenly feeling all kind of nauseated.

Olivia gave him a look. "Oh c'mon. She's not a toddler anymore, she's twenty-four. Are you honestly telling me you thought she never had se-"

"Do  _not_  say these words," he stopped her abruptly. "We are not talking about our daughter doing grownup things. I thought we'd made that clear when you were pregnant and we agreed no man would ever touch her."

Unsurprisingly, Peter had really been the only one who'd insisted on that.

Olivia, who actually had been smirking a little up until now -something he hadn't seen in a very, very long time, was losing her smile already. Soon, she was back to being tense, her face pale and grave; the reason behind her sudden change of demeanor became clear when she said: "Well, most of the things we'd planned out for her when I was pregnant didn't exactly turn out like we'd hoped they would."

She had a point. A monumental one, at that.

All of a sudden, Peter felt like an idiot, ranting about this with Olivia, when their relationship was still so unsteady. And there he was, reminding them both yet again of everything that had been lost.

As they stood there, the silence heavy with lingering regrets, some of what he was feeling must have shown on his face, because Olivia's posture eventually relaxed a bit, as did her eyes.

And when she spoke, her voice was quiet and soft: "We were gone for twenty years, Peter. Simon has been part of her life longer than the two of us combined. I know I can't ask you not to act like an overprotective father, but don't give her grief about this. She  _is_  an adult, and she will keep on doing whatever she wants, even if you don't approve of it."

He actually found himself smiling faintly and quite fondly upon hearing these words. "Sounds like someone I know."

Almost miraculously, Olivia started smiling again as well, and the gentle look in her eyes instantly made him feel better than he had in a long while. "Well, we did make her together," she said affectionately.

And then she had to add:

"Just think about how stubborn Etta's and Simon's kids are gonna be, though."

Good feeling's gone.


	12. Tulip

It happens too fast, the way it always does.

In the months that have passed since the Purge, a few months that feel more like several lifetimes spent in hell to them all, almost everything has changed, the familiar like the unfamiliar. Even the most significant places, the ones you should never forget, suddenly look foreign.

That is probably why neither Peter nor Olivia recognize the alley, that haunted place so close to the now long deserted Massive Dynamic. The graffiti, that once covered the entirety of the walls all these years ago, are gone too, painted and drawn over times and times again. The newest drawings that can now be seen are to be expected. Like a growing field, they have bloomed all over the city, all over the country, and rumors say they're already starting to spread worldwide as well.

The Tulips, symbol of Resistance.

To the husband and wife currently hiding in the shadows, it is nothing but a detail to them, especially  _now_ , when they are forced to be helpless witnesses of what the Observers are doing to one of their own kind, something they've never done before. It's not exactly a surprise; September had it coming.

It is, however, unbearable. All they can do is watch, as the brain of the only person who could help them find their daughter is turned into mush, the way so many Natives' are on a daily basis.

He's still 'alive' when the Observers are finished with him. The fact that they disappear quickly after that is proof enough that it won't be for long, though.

The moment they're gone, Olivia is on the ground, grabbing September's head in her hands; blood is seeping out of his ears and nose in a very slow, thick flow that soon covers her fingers too. His eyes are half-opened, but it is clear that he's already gone, the rise and fall of his chest a treachery.

Olivia doesn't care.

"Where is she?"

She's not asking, she's  _demanding_  him.

True to the feral behavior she has been adopting ever since the Purge, having long ago gone back to channeling all of her pain into anger, her voice is guttural, low and menacing. Her fury radiates out of her, causing her body to shake slightly; her face, only inches away from September's, constricts as she stares into the glassy eyes of the brain-dead Observer.

"Please, tell me where she is."

Already,her wrath is changing, morphing into a desperation she cannot hold back anymore, not when it is dawning on her that their last hope of ever finding Etta is dying right there in her hands, and there is nothing she can do but beg him.

" _Please_ ,  _tell me where my baby is_!"

But the only answer she gets is in the sudden yet expected stillness of his chest, and in the vacant look in his eyes that follows, as his body finally gives up. He lies there on the pavement, where a Shapeshifter flaunting Charlie's face had once laid before.

There is silence, then, a long, long stretch of silence, until her intakes of breath become progressively louder and more erratic. She lets go of his head, and it hits the ground with a muffled, nauseating  _thump_.

Her bloody fingers disappear into her hair, and she fists it in her hands, curling into herself. A low hum can be heard, now, an agonizing lament that escapes her throat with increasing volume, until it's a full-blown yell of despair that echoes through the alley. A rising, broken sob is what eventually makes it stop.

And just like it had before, the rain begins to fall.

On the walls, the tulips are crying, too.


	13. Spooning

Olivia woke up to a sensation that was becoming eerily familiar, these days.

Her hair was raising at the back of her neck; it was the kind of prickling feeling that normally would make anybody feel uneasy…unless you were safely cuddled up in your bed, fully aware of what was causing it –or rather  _who_.

She couldn't help but smile. The soft and serene curling of her lips was the only move she made, keeping her eyes shut. "You know, you're gonna have to stop this," she whispered.

From the quality of the light she could 'see' through her closed eyelids, she guessed it probably was well past her usual wake up time again. Lately, she simply seemed to be needing more sleep…not that there wasn't a very good explanation for such occurrence.

"Stop what?"

Peter's voice, always slightly hoarse at this hour of the day, came from behind her. Actually, it came from  _above_  her. She could picture him with perfect clarity, his chin propped up in one of his hands, as he looked down at her –or  _stared_ , really.

"Watching me sleep like that. It's getting kinda creepy." She knew he could hear the smile in her comment, see in on her lips, too.

He didn't say anything, not yet anyway; he moved quietly instead, bringing his face down. Soon, she felt his nose nuzzling her hair, his weight moving behind her as he pressed himself fully against her back. It caused a shiver to run all the way up her spine, then all the way down, until her every limb was tingling appreciatively.

The feel of his nose now slowly tracing her jaw line was enough to wake up every single nerve in her body, and the warmth of his skin against her own was a sensation she would never get tired of.

She wasn't surprised in the least by his next move, one of his hands slipping over her waist to come press his palm over her lower stomach -which he kept insisting had already gotten firmer. Olivia could only smile a little more broadly, as she rested her own hand over his, intertwining their fingers.

"You can't really blame me…" he eventually said softly, almost directly into her ear. He kept on moving, almost imperceptibly, in a relentless attempt to increase the proximity of their bodies; at that instant, she swore she could have dissolved in his warmth.

His words brought recent images to her mind, though. As always, the fresh memory felt like a sharp and icy thorn puncturing her heart. How she had opened her eyes on the boat, unable to understand neither why she was lying on a table, nor why Peter's face had been tearstained and grief-stricken…or why there was blood all over Walter's hands.

It had come back to her fast, the gunshot and the void, as Peter hugged her to him again and cried his relief in the crook of her neck.

No, she really couldn't blame him.

But they were okay, the three of them. She let him know by pressing his palm a bit more firmly over her stomach, her thumb caressing the top of his hand, and it was her turn to wriggle in his arms, trying to sink deeper into his warmth, always deeper.

The worst was behind them, now.


	14. Friends

For a while there, Peter had really thought his running days were behind him.

As it turns out...not quite.

When your face is plastered on buildings all over the city, and you and your family have officially been declared ' _Public Enemy Number One_ ' by a bunch of disgruntled bald guys, you end up doing a lot more running.

At least this time, he's not running alone.

Unsurprisingly, he's ahead of Olivia today as they sprint through the streets; she's athletic and fast, but his legs are longer. He's not (too) worried, though. He knows she's right behind him, the staccato of her breathing loud and wheezy, a sound that is worrisome alright, but right at that instant, their asses being chased by frustrated Loyalists comes first on his Worry List.

And so he leads the way, making them take sudden turns at sharp angles to try and lose their tail; he's always been quite good at that. When he passes the entrance of a small alley, he trusts his instincts, darting into it and reaching behind him to grab Olivia's arm and drag her along.

He inwardly thanks the twisted arrangement of this part of the city, as he makes them strut and turn deeper into the thickening darkness, the bleak light of day obstructed by the tall buildings surrounding them. They only come to a wobbly stop when he believes them to be safe.

Olivia's back hits the wall, her chest heaving frenetically, and he hovers over her, keeping steady by leaning his forearm against the bricks near her head, fighting to breathe.

His entire body  _hurts_ ; it feels like minuscule shards of glass are digging into the flesh of his throat and lungs every time he breathes in, the pain even worse whenever he exhales. Fucking air, with its fucking lack of oxygen. Running in these conditions makes the changes in the atmosphere that much more noticeable –and so damn  _painful_.

Olivia seems to be having even a harder time than him dealing with this physiological problem, her face constricted in an intense grimace of pain, her breathing raspy and erratic. Instinctively, both of her hands have reached for him, her fists now twisting his shirt in a firm grip. He wants to offer her a few reassuring words, try and calm her down maybe, but he can't speak yet, still fighting his own battle. Even silent communication is impossible, as her eyes remain tightly closed.

Once again, he acts intuitively, bringing the hand that isn't splayed on the wall up to her face. He lightly brushes her rosy skin with his fingertips, seeking her attention, and nothing more.

After all, less than twelve hours have passed since they've had that 'Talk', during which they've agreed that they should try and behave as friendly as possible around each other, especially when their daughter is with them. The term 'friends' is absolutely laughable when it comes to the two of them, but Peter is so desperate to reconnect with her that he's willing to try anything.

As he had intended, Olivia reopens her eyes at the feel of his touch, her gaze instantly -and intensely- locking on his. Before he can move his hand away, one of her own lets go of his shirt, her fingers finding their way around his wrist, and she presses her feverish cheek into his cool palm.

She's still struggling to breathe, they both are, but the contact seems to ease her pain. She keeps on staring at him intently, not even blinking anymore, and within a few, adrenaline-filled seconds, Peter's entire focus shifts from their labored breathing to everything else.

Right now, Olivia is everything else.

Her skin glistens with sweat, flushed with exertion and pain, strands of hair having stuck to her damp temples; her fingers have entrapped his wrist in a steel grip, while her other hand keeps on clutching his clammy shirt. He becomes truly aware now of how very close their bodies are, so close that every rush of hot air that comes out of her parted lips scorches the inside of his palm.

She's radiating heat, mere inches away from him, and her every pore seems to be releasing a scent that is so intimately familiar to him, tugging forcefully at something deep within his guts. He fully realizes that he's in no better shape, exuding similar signals, soon causing her gaze to darken, her breathing actually deepening.

He feebly attempts to clear his mind, to maybe try and command his limbs to move so that he can step away from her. But he feels a literal tug, then, when her fingers gently and yet  _very_  purposefully, pull on his shirt.

His body responds, moving forward instead of away, until their hipbones meet, and she finds herself pressed harder into the wall; he leans his damp forehead against hers, never once moving his eyes away from hers, their heavy breaths soon melding.

Being 'friends' is obviously going to be a piece of cake.


	15. Airplane

Olivia had reached a state of restlessness that reminded Peter of the first few days they had spent together, almost eighteen months ago.

She was so impatient that she seemed ready to crawl out of her skin, the kind of impatience that had led her to jump off buildings in the past, or to 'simply' engage in a frenzied, running chase, if no building were available. The worst thing she could be forced to do at that instant was to sit in a confined place and wait it out.

They were stuck in an airplane. They had been for the past hour, and would be for the next two.

There was no way around this; none of them enjoyed wasting three hours in a plane, but it remained the fastest way for them to go back from Florida to New York. What seemed to be a lifetime ago, he might have used this break to get some sleep –they  _all_  needed sleep, having been awake for almost three days straight, now, but there was no way he could rest.

Even if he hadn't been feeling quite agitated himself as time ticked away and that mysterious building got closer and closer to being sucked from their universe and into the other one, his quiet concern for Olivia would have been more than enough to trouble him alright.

He kept a steady gaze on her, as she sat opposite him, a stare she was plainly aware of; she had long ago chosen to ignore it, though, as nothing she could say or no look she could give him would be convincing enough to make him stop, and they both knew it.

He stared at her, unable not to remember that first flight they had been on together, from Iraq to Boston, all these months ago. It was all so similar, and yet so different.

Just like she had back then, she kept using the phone, inquiring on any update in New York, despite the fact that the situation remained unchanged so far. She constantly fidgeted, too, her eyes looking through the window, though there was nothing to see but the dimming light of dusk, her twitchy fingers going up to her forehead and hair again and again and again.

It looked the same, but it couldn't have felt more different to him;  _he_  couldn't have felt more differently, especially when it came to her.

He knew her, now. She wasn't just an obviously stubborn –and irritating- FBI agent who was dragging him away against his will from what had been a pretty damn good deal in Iraq, forcing him to go see the man he only called Father because of genetic obligations.

He knew the meaning of each of these movements she made, understood her body language, felt the burn caused by that look in her eyes, even when she wasn't looking at him.

There was a darkness surrounding her now that hadn't been there when they had first met, one that had begun to form the instant John died in her arms, and had only thickened as the months went by, and the deaths multiplied. Charlie's had been the latest, most damaging blow in a series of damaging blows, adding more weight on her already crushed shoulders. Never before had he met someone so haunted.

And yet, she shone brighter in his eyes than anyone he had ever known


	16. Overdue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually posted as a oneshot on ff.net as it is almost 3,000 words long, but I think it fits well in this :p

If you had asked Peter Bishop to describe Olivia Dunham only a few months ago, he would most definitely have described her as being a woman of action.

She did not enjoy sitting around, even if her job and its endless hours of paperwork forced her to do just that almost on a daily basis. However, one quickly learned that she usually managed to squeeze her paperwork loads during night time, when other people might do things like sleep, hence giving her more time to run after criminals during the day. Having been part of her life for quite a while, now, Peter still couldn't have said with certainty  _when_ she actually got some sleep.

No matter the nature of her mission, may it be arresting a crazy person trying to create a chemical weapon meant to make people's blood boil in their veins, or going out to buy two weeks' worth of groceries in less than thirty minutes on a Friday night, once her mind was set, Olivia was always swift, determined and focused. And while she admitted herself that she used her emotions as a catalyst to increase her job performances, it usually meant that she had a tendency to become particularly passionate and driven. To outsiders, the cool –if not cold- demeanor she often adopted unknowingly led them to think that she was a rather uptight, unfeeling woman.

These were some of the things Peter might have said off the top of his head, if he had been asked to describe Olivia. A few months ago.

Now, it was as if she had morphed into a completely different person, especially in the last few weeks. He was as equally fascinated by this transformation as he was honestly terrified of her at times, whenever she suddenly unleashed.

Some things had not changed, however, which was why he was careful not to  _ever_  question her, not making any comment on her new behaviors; he was all too aware of how annoyed and distressed she felt about her current…situation.

Mostly, he found her absolutely endearing and more lovable than ever -another thing he would never dare say to her, obviously.

She, who had always despised sleep so much and could never sit around for more than a few minutes before she felt the urge to move, even if it was simply to pour herself another shot of whiskey in the kitchen or go nibble on some cereals, was now spending most of her days (and nights) resting or sleeping, always trying to find some kind of comfortable position on their couch, or occasionally in the bed.

When she moved, there was almost nothing left of her quick strides and stiff movements; instead, she mostly wobbled around, or tried to, huffing and puffing whenever she had to do more than walk in a somewhat straight line.

Less than a month ago, she had still been able to move surprisingly swiftly, filled with some mysterious and crazed energy, whenever she was overtaken by a sudden and most intense urge to  _nest_. They never referred to it as nesting, for obvious reasons, but Peter had read enough books by now to know it was exactly what she had been doing. These were good examples of times when he had been particularly careful  _not_  to stand in her way, or to call her out on how she was exhausting herself, as she cleaned absolutely every single surface of their place.

She would squat, crawl and bend in the weirdest positions to reach under furniture and do whatever she wanted, all the while having to deal with the already very impressive… _element_  that was blocking most of her movements.

But that had been over three weeks ago, now, and so late in her pregnancy, every day that had gone by since then had been a day during which Olivia had seemingly gained more volume –still all in front.

She was officially a week overdue now, closer to forty-two weeks than forty-one, give or take a few days, as they were still unsure on  _when_  the conception had happened, exactly. They had been quite active around that time.

At this point, most doctors would have already 'advised' the expecting mother to check themselves into a hospital and get induced to end their suffering once and for all. Of course, they usually found ways to make it all about the baby's safety, making it sound like being overdue was dangerous for the unborn child.

As it so happened, however, Olivia was surrounded by men who were much smarter than most doctors, and through the months, she had taken a personal and serious interest in the safety and birth of her child. To quote her words, she knew it was mostly bullshit. As long as both baby and mother were closely and regularly monitored, and as long as they stayed healthy, there was no need for forced induction.

"I swear, if one more person asks me why I'm not going to the hospital to get drugs pumped through my veins and make things easier on the doctors by having the swift C-section that will mostly likely follow, I will get my gun back and put  _them_  in a hospital."

These had been her words, only two days ago. Even if Peter admired and approved of her choices about going 'all natural' and let things unfold on their own, he had to admit that the idea of suggesting induction to her was starting to cross his mind more and more often. He would however never, ever, EVER dare utter those words out loud.

But Olivia was just so…

Well, he never thought there would come a day when he would have to describe her as being 'pitiful ', but it just came a time when even the most badass woman in this universe (and probably the other one) reached a point of no return. He suspected that Olivia had reached that time a while ago now, as her belly was now close to making up a third of her corporal mass.

Peter did his best to be around as much as possible during this trying time, knowing –and hoping- that it could happen at any moment, but sometimes, things beyond his control forced him out of the apartment. He was not simply referring to how Olivia regularly asked him to go buy more Indian food, as spicy dishes were one of the many things that were supposed to naturally induce labor.

Today, it had been a new eccentricity from Walter that had gotten him out, and when he finally made it back home in the early evening, he wasn't exactly surprised to find Olivia in tears in front of the TV, lost in the pile of pillows, cushions and tissues that covered the entirety of the couch.

She hardly even looked at him when he entered the room, keeping her eyes on the screen as she sniffed miserably and took another bite of what he recognized as being a particularly hot red pepper.

One thing for sure, their daughter would probably love spicy food, too.

"Honey…" he said in his special  _very-pregnant-Olivia_  voice, as he freed himself from all his winter clothes, making sure to hang them in the right place so she wouldn't have a breakdown about it later. "I thought we'd agreed on the fact that you should stay away from all the very depressing movies Netflix keeps on recommending you."

She shook her head slowly, pouting in the most endearing way, still staring at the screen as tears kept on leaking out of her eyes. "I'm watching Animal Planet."

Peter had to force himself not to smile. There really was something incredibly sweet in seeing her so absolutely overwhelmed by her hormones, having no other choice but to accept her human condition.

She was such a mess at the moment, her face puffy, wet, sticky and flushed; her favorite and most comfortable clothes were in urgent need of some washing, just like she could probably use a trip in the shower or bath herself, and her hair was notably tangled and messy. Plus, she was so obviously exhausted and drained, as her constant physical discomfort made it almost impossible for her to get the sleep she so desperately needed.

And yet, he still believed her to be the most gorgeous creature on this planet, even if he had quickly learned not to share these particular thoughts with her. She had attempted to slap him rather hard the last time he had tried.

He walked into the room, coming to stand behind the couch, where she was not so gracefully slumped, looking at the TV to find out what was making her so emotional. After staring at the screen for a few seconds and quickly understanding what the nature of the program was, he bent down, so that his head was at her level.

"And…what exactly do you find so upsetting about watching a documentary on elephants?" He asked with genuine curiosity. From this view, her belly really looked impressively huge.

"Twenty-two months," Olivia moaned, her mouth once again full of pepper, and her face constricted, causing a few more tears to escape from her reddened eyes. "That's how long a female elephant gestates. It's almost two full years, Peter."

He bit the inside of his cheek hard, still doing his best not to smile, because she had turned her head, now offering him a truly distressed look.

"Good thing you're not an elephant, then." He couldn't help himself, even though he knew how dangerous joking with her had become. It could lead to all sort of unexpected reactions, from beautiful hilarity to terrifying fury.

Sure enough, her desperation was already morphing into definite irritation, as she glared at him. "The human gestation is way too long, too, in case you hadn't noticed. You go through life being told by everybody that pregnancy is nine months long. But a pregnancy is supposed to last forty weeks, which makes it a total of ten  _full_  months. And then you have cases when the baby stubbornly refuses to come out, no matter how much oil you swallow, how many miles you attempt to walk in your apartment, how much spicy food you eat in spite of your heartburn, and before you know it, you're almost a year pregnant!"

Completely endeared, and not even trying to hide his smile anymore since she was now talking to her belly with grand hand gestures, he nuzzled his nose against her wet cheekbone, until she moved her head away from him with an annoyed huff.

"It's probably because she's very cozy in there," he told her, still smiling.

She chuckled humorously, throwing another dark glare his way. " _Cozy_?" she repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Are you kidding me? She's getting so big, I don't even know how she can stand it. I mean seriously, look at this, I can tell you exactly where each of her limbs are, because you can almost see their shape now. Like, you see that small bump there?" She had pulled up her shirt to reveal the very tense skin of her stomach, pointing at one of the few smaller bumps that deformed her otherwise very round belly. "That's an elbow. And sometimes, I swear I can even see her butt sticking out!"

He  _had_  to laugh at that. He tried to muffle the sound into the pad of the couch, but he failed spectacularly. Therefore, he couldn't avoid the small –and well-deserved- slap that soon hit the side of his head.

"This is not funny!" she growled, now throwing what was left of her pepper onto the very messy coffee table, full of used tissues and empty snack bags, and already, her irritation was turning back into desperation, her voice thick with tears as she continued: "I'm so huge and achy, I can barely move off that freaking couch, despite the fact that I have to pee ten times an hour, while she kicks my organs 24/7. I'm also both desperately horny and so grossed out by my own body. I haven't showered in almost two days because that would mean dragging my enormous ass into the bathroom and getting naked. I keep on doing everything that is supposed to induce labor, and she still refuses to come out, I'm just  _done_ , Peter."

During her tearful monologue, he had straightened up again, leaning more fully over the edge of the couch, keeping his face very close to hers, so that when she raised her eyes to his as she said his name, her gaze locked with his, like they often did.

"I know you are," he said softly. "And I think you are absolutely admirable for going through all of this. But it will be over in a matter of days now, and we will have a beautiful, healthy, chubby baby girl…just like her mamma."

As always, being reminded of what would soon come, or rather  _who_ , Olivia's body relaxed slightly, mellowed by the thought of their daughter. She did offer him a look, though. "Chubby like her mamma, uh?"

"I was mostly referring to her being as beautiful and healthy as you, obviously," he corrected himself with a small smile, their faces only inches apart now. "And as far as getting you naked and into the shower, I would most definitely be happy to help you out with that."

"You're grossed out, too, aren't you?" she asked quietly, having sensed the definite shift in the energy surrounding them, caused by both his stare and the tone he had used while offering to get her naked.

His smile grew, becoming cheekier and undeniably seducing. He shook his head slowly. "Most definitely not. I was merely thinking about how I could also do something about your horniness problem while we're in there."

Under normal circumstances, she usually attempted to resist a little to his advances, though they both knew this particular stare and smile almost always led her to cave after only a few minutes. But circumstances were different, now, which is why he barely had time to finish his sentence before she reached up to grab the back of his neck, swiftly and avidly pulling him down to her.

She kissed him with equal eagerness, falling sideways against her pillows, and causing him to be splayed quite awkwardly over the back of the couch. Not that he minded much. Lately, physical closeness had become rare, as she felt too uncomfortable to be remotely in the mood for this kind of activity, and he was too mindful and respectful of her well-being to even try. But right now, it was obvious that her hormones were indeed firing her up despite everything else.

She tasted like pepper, and it wasn't long at all before he felt equally flushed, and somewhat uncomfortable too in this position, as if he had taken a bite of the spicy fruit himself –which in a way, he had, after teasingly nibbling her lower lip.

She abruptly broke their heated kiss, moving her head away with a pained grunt. Despite the intensity of the kiss they had just shared, Peter's mind immediately cleared up. He had read that this kind of physical activity was another way of naturally inducing labor, but he would never have thought that it would work so fast.

He fell back on his feet on the other side of the couch a bit too loudly, watching her face, scrunched in pain.

"Should I get the car running?" He asked, more than slightly hopeful, even though he knew they had no reason to  _rush_  out of here if she really was in labor at last.

But she shook her head, now looking grumpy. "That's not it. She's simply started kicking my insides again." She threw her head back against the couch, sighing heavily, and very tiredly. "She obviously got your sense of humor."

He leaned down again, softly nuzzling her nose before pressing a kiss on her forehead. "And your stubbornness," he said against her skin, as she raised a hand, briefly running her fingers through his hair, as she let out another long, frustrated sigh.

"C'mon," he eventually whispered, his lips still pressed upon her forehead. "Let's get you naked and see if nipple stimulation works better than spicy food."

Luckily for him, the joke actually worked this time, managing to get a few chuckles out of her. They sounded more like grunts than actual laughter, but it was better than tears.

And as it turned out, nipple stimulation  _did_  work better than spicy food.


	17. Tactless

As they found themselves facing yet another impending apocalypse, they could always count on Walter to distract them from the idea of collapsing universes and the grim prospect of twelve billions deaths.

And as usual, he did so in the most embarrassing and tactless fashion imaginable.

"Olivia, have you been menstruating?"

Silence fell on the lab.

Peter, who had been discussing the meaning of a new set of data with Astrid, raised his eyes from the documents spread on the table to briefly stare at his father, before quickly moving his gaze to Olivia, who was standing at the other end of the lab with her phone pressed to her ear, a hand on her hip.

For a moment, she simply seemed frozen to the spot, a small frown soon wrinkling her brow, as if she wasn't sure she had heard correctly.

Peter hoped he hadn't heard correctly.

After another floating instant, Olivia finally moved, bringing the phone down to cover it with her palm, hiding the conversation from whoever was at the other end of the line. "Pardon me?" she asked Walter, still frowning in honest puzzlement.

"Have you been menstruating?" Walter repeated without the slightest hesitation, and his tone was as grave as the look on his face. He was holding a piece of paper in his hand, that Peter knew had to be some sort of results.

Now that it had been confirmed to everybody in the room that they had actually  _not_ _misheard_  Walter's question the first time around, it was a matter of microseconds before Olivia's face turned into a shade of dark pink, as mortification swiftly settled in. Through her embarrassment, she threw a quick glance at Peter, who honestly felt just as mortified as her at his father's complete lack of tact.

He knew he should have said something, reprimanded Walter for speaking the words in the first place, but if the look on Olivia's face was any indication, her aggravation quickly turning into irritation, it was better for everybody present to remain quiet for now, until she was through with the old man.

She brought the phone back to her ear and muttered "Let me call you back," before her hand went back down to her hip, her face still flushed, her eyes now murderous. "Alright Walter," Olivia said bluntly, scowling. "How is this relevant in any way with what we're dealing with right now."

"It is not," Walter replied assuredly. "Not exactly, though it might explain the strange display of your abilities lately. I just got the results of the tests I ran on your blood, and you are experiencing a very high hGC level, which cannot be ignored."

"What is that supposed to mean, exactly?" Olivia asked, a hand swooping in front of her, now clearly irritated; she often was when the scientific aspect of things escaped her.

"Pregnancy, dear," Walter explained, remaining abnormally calm, and for the second time within the last five minutes, Olivia seemed to simply froze into space, a hand still up in the air.

Peter, still leaning upon the table, was as equally frozen, his eyes moving from Walter to Olivia, not quite able to feel anything just yet, content to simply watch the progression of the exchange until his state of shock passed.

"Such a high level of human chorionic gonadotrophin is typical during the early stage of pregnancy, hence my question about your cycle." Walter continued as if he was teaching one of his science classes, until he smiled a bit goofily. "I wouldn't have prodded otherwise, though now, given the circumstances, I feel that it might have been appropriate for me to warn you and Peter that condoms are not a hundred percents effective."

Peter knew he  _really_  had to speak up at this point, and he tried to; he even had his mouth open, and a few words lodged in his throat, but nothing came out.

Olivia was shaking her head now, offering Walter her best frown, as a confused smile pulled at the corners of her lips. "This is ridiculous Walter," she said, almost chuckling. "I'm not pregnant."

"So you  _have_  been menstruating, then?"

Olivia opened her mouth to answer, traces of her smile remaining on her lips, but very soon, she mimicked Peter in her inability to speak, her eyes getting lost in the distance; for the first time since Walter had asked her that question, it was obvious that she was finally focusing on its meaning itself, rather than on how inappropriate it was.

It wasn't long at all before her smile started to falter, and the warm color that had invaded her cheeks quickly receded, too, replaced by a pallor that soon turned greenish.

Her gaze moved then, to find Peter's, almost instinctively seeking him out, and the look they exchanged didn't say much beside:

_Well, shit._

Apparently, the almost horror-struck faces of his son and his girlfriend were all the confirmation Walter needed, because next thing they knew, he had dropped his serious mask and had let out a gleeful shout of happiness that filled the lab. He was on Olivia within seconds, hugging her tight and already babbling excitingly about the benefits of carrying a Bishop child, while she just stood there, squeezed, completely motionless, and looking about to experience some kind of morning sickness.

Peter, for his part, couldn't do anything but stare, assuming that he would begin feeling normal emotions again eventually, but not just yet. He watched as Walter let go of Olivia, beaming so foolishly, with his eyes so full of happy tears, and his hands soon came up to her ashy face to cup both her cheeks.

"Thank you," he said, with sheer sincerity, his grin now quivering, and then, he simply started weeping.

At this point, Olivia had no other choice but to let him hug her again as he wept against her shoulder, and she patted his back kindly, saying things like ' _It's okay, Walter, there there'_ , her own shock obviously starting to dissipate, if the intense mix of emotion now constricting her face was any indication.

Mostly, she looked terrified, and Peter couldn't help but think about what he had told her mere hours ago.

_I will not lose you again, Olivia._

Peter only moved his eyes away from the scene when he felt a hand on his arm, and only then did he remember that Astrid was still standing right next to him. He met her gaze, and wasn't exactly surprised to see that her eyes had welled up with tears, too, although like him and Olivia, she clearly couldn't bring herself to feel as ecstatic as Walter about the unexpected news, not  _now_.

She smiled at him, though, wordlessly, and he tried to smile back, but what he felt on his face surely resembled more a grimace than a smile.

His eyes quickly went back to Olivia and Walter, still locked in their teary embrace. Olivia seemed to be getting a grip on herself already, unsurprisingly, and she was speaking to Walter soothingly, as if he was the one who had just learned he was pregnant and needed reassurance.

As his own shock finally started to slowly recede, all Peter wanted to do was get Olivia away from his father and entrap her in his own arms, and then possibly force her to hide somewhere safe and away from any kind of danger –Jones being on top of the list.

But even now, when they hadn't even talked together about this rather big change of event, had barely  _glanced_  at each other, Peter knew that she would never let this take her away from the battlefield.

Maybe when they were done saving the universes, they would take a moment to freak out accordingly.

Then, they might even allow themselves to dream.


	18. North Pole

"Daddy?"

Turning away from the sizzling pan he had been focused on, Peter looked at his four-year-old daughter, who had been silently drawing at the kitchen table for the last fifteen minutes, while he got dinner ready. A bit too silently, he realized then. His daughter was a lot of things, and chatty was definitely one of them.

He noticed the serious look on her face, that small crease between her eyes, and the familiar way she pursed her lips.

"What is it, sweetheart?"

"Can we send my Christmas card to the North Pole?"

He smiled at her, dropping his spoon to join her at the table. "Absolutely. I thought we'd mailed your list to Santa already, though?"

She shook her head. "No, this one's for grandpa." Then, as always somewhat unaware of the meaning behind her father's sudden silence, she added: "I just think he's there with Santa. He told me once that's where candies came from, from the North Pole I mean. So, he's probably there."

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, a reaction he still couldn't quite control, he looked at the drawing Etta had sketched. He recognized the figures she had drawn without difficulty. There he was, holding Etta's "hands", Olivia on the other side of her. She had even attempted to draw her bump, which turned out to be a massive circle that would make her mother cringe, with a tiny stick figure in it. On the other part of the card, she had drawn Gene, Walter, and another man who was unmistakably Santa Claus, all surrounded with candy canes and what he recognized as red vines.

"Can you help me spell ' _I miss you'_?"


	19. Snuggles

It happens often, in the first few weeks following Walter’s disappearance; Etta’s nightmares.

Some would say this reaction is to be expected. She misses her grandfather, who’s been a constant presence in her life from the day she was born. She’s also feeding off her parents’ emotions, especially Peter’s, who’s been going from one extreme to the other. But there’s more to it than simple psychology.

Whenever Etta tip-toes into their room after one of her bad dreams, Olivia is already awake, abruptly pulled from her dreamscape moments ago. These dreamscapes are always dark, filled with shadows and loss, echoes from a timeline she cannot quite forget. She lets Etta climb in with them, lets her crawl in between her and Peter, who’s often awake, too, haunted by the same echoes.

They gather in the middle of the bed, forming a warm, shielding cocoon around their trembling daughter, Olivia’s fingers in her hair, Peter’s thumb pressed upon her chin, a soothing touch from her infancy days. Eventually, Etta always falls back asleep.

Her parents never do.


	20. Self-preservation

Anyone who had ever spent more than five minutes around Olivia Dunham knew that her sense of self-preservation was virtually nonexistent. She made that clear on a daily basis.

When faced with a dangerous situation, if that dangerous situation involved protecting random innocents or righting some imaginary wrong, the fact that it also happened to be potentially deadly never fazed her in the least.

The stupidest thing someone could therefore ever do was fall in love with her. Peter was well aware of that –had been for a ridiculously long time, yet there he was. Completely fucked.

Once again, he had missed the big of the confrontation, only catching up to her on its tail end. To his defense, he  _had_  taken a pretty bad blow to the head, and unlike her, he was not immune to pain and dizzy spells. He arrived just in time to see the last round of their fight,  _his_  instincts immediately torn between staying somewhat hidden behind a car and jumping in to help her.

He quickly accepted the fact that he had better stay half-concealed, his aching skull a good reminder that he couldn't do much with his bare hands. If he jumped in now, he would probably end up dead, both sides having guns and not being afraid to use them.

Each blow Olivia took pained him more than the throbbing at the back of his head, but each blow she furiously returned filled him with dark satisfaction. Despite his concern, he always loved watching her in action; she was a skilled fighter, she knew where to hit and how to use her momentum or her enemies' to inflict damage.

Less than a full minute after he joined the scene and cowered behind cover, she fired the last shot, the bullet piercing the shapeshifter's forehead in typical Dunham fashion.

In the seconds that followed, the sound of her labored breathing dominated their surroundings. By the time he'd jogged to her, moments later, she was already standing back up, hissing as her left hand reached for her right shoulder.

" _Fuck_ ," she breathed out.

This was not a sign of bewilderment at the way things had escalated –or fallen apart– in the past seven minutes. This was not an expression of her pain either, even though she was obviously hurting, her recently healed shoulder having taken another hard blow.

No, she was  _disappointed_ , cursing at herself. Again, typical Dunham fashion. Peter was not surprised.

Irritated? Most certainly, but surprised? Ha ha.

Everything always turned into a freaking crusade in Olivia's mind, there was no in between. Capturing a live shapeshifter had become one of her main goals these past few weeks, especially since Charlie, and while he commanded her for her unwavering determination and unrelenting stubbornness, if she could just  _stop_  getting herself almost killed every five minutes, he would appreciate it.

She was bleeding,  _again_ , bruises already blooming on the pale skin of her face, her temple scratched, hair and clothes equally disheveled. Even though she was still holding on to her shoulder with a pained, frustrated grimace, Peter did not ask her if she was okay. As he watched her glare at the shapeshifter on the ground, chest still heaving, he knew it would be pointless.

"Should I even bother calling in some EMTs?" he offered anyway, not even trying to conceal the sarcastic notes from his voice.

Her expression changed slightly, her scowl turning into pursed lips as she finally met his eyes.

"What for?" she asked with a hint of annoyance, letting go of her shoulder at last to wipe off her nose, marking the back of her hand with a trail of fresh blood. "He's dead."

Peter shook his head a little, his turn to scowl at her. "Never mind," he sighed, defeated.


	21. Peace Offering

Olivia rarely closes her office door, her way of letting them know when she welcomes visitors, and when she does not.

The door is closed today, has been for a while. Peter has come to the conclusion that she has done so to muffle the sound of Walter's music, trying to get some work done.

His father has been in a mood, lately. When he's not fretting over him and his wellbeing, he goes into one of his frenzies, roaming the lab or their house, agitated and unstoppable, rambling about everything and nothing,  _insisting_  that David Bowie must be playing at all time. Loudly.

Astrid left a while ago now, and Peter cannot blame her. He would leave, too, if he wasn't handcuffed to Walter in every aspect of their lives –although he knows that thought to be somewhat hypocritical and unfair. While a year ago, he still regularly felt the urge to escape Boston and the very, _very_ strange life he had come to have here, he hasn't daydreamed about pulling a disappearing act in a long time. Part of it is because of the odd yet satisfying bond that has been forming between him and his father.

The other reason for his newfound appreciation of the sedentary lifestyle is currently hiding in her office.

Because she  _is_  hiding, that much is obvious. She's been avoiding him for the past two days, ever since he came back to work; the music just gave her an excuse to keep her door closed.

Peter stands in front of that door, now, far from being intimidated by it; he's familiar with Olivia's doors. And walls. And moats. It's all about being bold enough to go for it anyway, or being patient enough to let her bring the drawbridge down on her own terms.

Today, he's going for it.

Having tucked a few boxes of Chinese food under one arm, he uses his free hand to give the door a couple of good knocks, opening it without awaiting a say-so. Olivia barely glances up at him over the rim of her glasses as he enters the room, quickly closing the door behind him. The office is remarkably well insulated, David's voice now a distant, subdued sound in the background.

Even as he comes to stand in front of her desk, she keeps on going with her writing. She has used a pencil to entrap her hair in a messy bun, and a quick look down confirms that the top buttons of her blouse are once again undone, letting him see probably more than she'd like from that angle. His gaze doesn't linger there for long, just like his mind doesn't linger on the thought of how soft her skin must be, used to pushing those away.

These days, he doesn't even need to be around her physically to find himself consumed with the thought of touching her, in any way she would let herself be touched. While he is only human and will sometimes (often) let the fantasies unfold when he's alone –and preferably in bed, he does his best to keep his mind clear when in her presence. Respect or self-preservation?

Probably a bit of both.

Right now, he simply stands there, patiently waiting for her to focus on him. When she finally does, raising her head, her green eyes briefly meet his from behind her lenses, before she shifts her gaze down, eying the boxes in his hands. Her mouth purses with the slightest of frown, bringing her eyes back to his.

He smiles, shrugging a little. "Peace offering," he says in a casual tone. "Mind making some room?"

He sees the way her frown becomes more pronounced for a moment, before her eyes fall back upon her desk, taking in the mess of papers that covers it, as if only now realizing how much she has spread out. She's taken aback, a predictable reaction, and that's fine. He gives her the second she needs to collect herself; soon, she's moving documents and folders around, freeing just enough space.

"I wasn't aware we were at war," she replies then, just as casually, with a hint of fake amusement that doesn't fool him.

Peter chooses not to say anything to that, putting the boxes down instead, before walking to the side of the room to grab the extra chair, bringing it in front of her desk and sitting opposite her. Even though he decided not to speak, he does bring his eyes back to hers, merely smiling a little, his way of reminding her they're  _both_  well aware of what she's been doing –avoiding him.

Plus, there is always this silent dare going on between them, to see how long they can hold each other's gaze before one of them folds. It only takes a few seconds before a soft blush begins creeping up her face, her cheekbones turning pink, and he allows himself to think how it makes her look even lovelier than usual.

That's another thought he pushes away, though, because it would be  _way_  too easy for his mind to come up with a few scenarios that would have for only purpose to leave her entire body flushed, from head to toes.

They avert their eyes almost at the same time, having dared long enough for now. Peter briefly busies himself with opening up the containers, while Olivia shuffles a few more papers around. He grabs the box of fried noodles and starts eating without saying a word, not encouraging her to eat either. All he can do at this point is hope the smells might wake up her stomach, and make it protest over the fact that she probably hasn't eaten anything all day. 

He also keeps his eyes down on the food he's picking at, knowing when to back off, aware that she's a bit too tensed on her side of the desk.

Because more often than not, even though there are times when she needs him to push, it's almost always wiser to wait it out. Push a little too hard, and she retreats completely.

"How are you feeling?"

Her question doesn't surprise him. It doesn't matter that he's been back at work for two full days, or that despite her best efforts, they've interacted quite a few times already. What matters is that it's the first time they're alone since he's been back. 

When he meets her eyes again, she looks sincere; elbow on her desk, her hand is up to the side of her neck, fingers playing distractedly with a strand of escaped hair. 

He offers her another smile. "I feel human again," he answers, and his relief is real.   


Walter may have found a cure that prevented him from  _dying_  by spraying his contaminated blood all over whomever was around to receive it, he still had to ride off the illness that came with the infection. Not a pleasant experience. 

"I do not recommend getting infected by a seventy-five-thousand-year-old flu,” he adds. “It's not as edgy as it sounds."

She barely smiles, and he can't blame her for not being amused by his lame attempt at being humorous. The untold hangs between them, now, the tension in the air thickening. With that photographic memory of hers, he has no doubts she remembers it all, but he wonders if she realizes how well _he_ remembers it, too.

His memories of that day aren't exactly clear, yet they are…sharp. When he focuses back on those couple of hours after getting infected, what he remembers most is  _heat_. Like every single cell in his body had been burning, burning, burning, and the only way for him to appease that scorching heat had been to find a way out of that building, no matter how.

He'd spent three days in bed, afterwards, entrapped in a feverish dreamscape, unable to break free, and Olivia had been in every vision, every hallucination.

Because the other thing he remembers most about that day is her. Slamming her against the hood of a car, against a wall,  _hard_. That day, he'd learned firsthand just how good a fighter she was. One of the bruises she'd given him still hasn't completely faded from his flesh, even after more than a week. He hates to think about the bruises he had to have left on  _her_  skin, wondering if they're still healing, too.

Even though she’d assured him she knew he hadn’t been himself, Peter knows part of the reason why she's been avoiding him is because of what happened in that parking garage. But it goes beyond that, too, even if he can't quite explain it; that pensive little line between her eyes makes it clear.

He gives her another look, then, tilting his head slightly, eyes barely narrowed, the least intimidating way he knows how to ask her what's on her mind without actually asking anything.

She replies just as wordlessly, shaking her head a little, her fingers now playing with her ear, seeming to be battling with herself. Eventually, she simply shrugs a shoulder a bit stiffly, pursing her mouth again. "I'm glad you're okay," she says, quietly, if not awkwardly.

This must be the third or fourth time she either asks about his wellbeing or comments on it, in that uncharacteristic shy way of hers. He always finds it strange if not a bit fascinating, how she can be so straightforward and decisive when it comes to her job, yet becomes almost paralyzed with dread whenever she has to let herself be vulnerable. 

And just like that, it finally dawns on Peter, what she's been trying to tell him.

_I was worried about you._

She had worried about him, enough to willingly step back into a building full of deranged and murderous people, yet again risking her own life, for his this time –among others. Olivia isn't a woman of many words, but she is a woman of action. 

In this particular instance, her actions spoke volumes.

And so, with a small nod of his head, Peter smiles again, his softest smile yet today. "I know," he tells her, his voice nonthreatening, his way of letting her know he understands.

Their eyes are locked again, always daring a little longer, the air filled with all these things they’re not saying. Soon, the blush has returned upon her skin, never having left completely. The warmth spreads, until both her cheeks have darkened noticeably; even her breathing seems a bit shallower. 

When she eventually moves her eyes, it’s not to avert them. They settle down on his lips instead, and his entire being begins to hum, taken over by a different kind of slow rising fever.

Until the door opens up behind them and David Bowie’s voice fills up the room, efficiently putting an end to the moment.

_‘THOUGH NOTHIIIIIIIING WILL KEEP US TOGETHEEEEEER, WE COULD STEAL TIIIIIIME, JUST FOR ONE DAYYYY’_

"Son,” Walter laments, reproachfully. “You took all the spring rolls." 


End file.
